Dying Embrace
by Jess J
Summary: Rated for sexual situations. Typhoid Mary didn't plan on meeting Tattoo in the gardens. She didn't plan on discovering his change. But it's not something she would complain about.


Author's note: This was written because my muse was determined to find a way for Tattoo and Typhoid Mary to, um, be together. So, here is one of the solutions she came up with. The ending is ambiguous, just to warn you, and there is sex. It's rated for a reason, ok? So, anyway, please review, hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: Look, if I owned Tattoo, Typhoid Mary, Kirigi, or the Elektra-verse, that movie would have ended a whole lot differently, ok? So I don't own it, nor do I pretend to own it. So no suing. Savvy?

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DYING EMBRACE

It had been nearly two months since Typhoid Mary had seen Tattoo. Kirigi had not needed his team lately, and they had all been left to occupy themselves - except with each other, of course. Not that any of them wanted to, none of them really cared what the others did nor wished to keep each other company.

Except for two. Typhoid and Tattoo had often longed to break the unspoken rule, but never had dared to. So now Typhoid was left on her own, left with her wicked games of suffering and twisted ponderings of the two men in her life.

Kirigi had recently called her back from her trip to a village in a lower region of India. He said he wanted her company. He wanted to remind her who owned her and nothing more. But he did own her, and so she had come at his beckoning, unable to resist her drug.

She had stayed with him in his large home in Japan. She was surprised they were in Japan. Normally he resided in North America and called her to his home in the states. She did not mind though, in fact she enjoyed the Japanese home, its style and grace and mystery. She loved its gardens, and she would walk through them, fighting off her urge to reach out and touch the beautiful, delicate, plants.

It was doubtful Kirigi would enjoy coming out to find his gardens filled with black, dead plants instead of vibrant greens and the beautiful, exotic colors of the flowers.

Typhoid wondered if Kirigi ever actually went out into his gardens. He was not like his father. He did not have the patience of tending to plants, so servants he had inherited from his father tended to the greenery.

If Kirigi ever walked in the gardens, it was whenever he knew Typhoid or the others would not see him.

Her musings over Kirigi and his gardens had put her into a mood for walking among them, and she wound up striding gracefully and silently out of the house, her feet carrying her to her destination of choice. She walked barefoot on the wooden floors before climbing down a few steps and treading the stone pathway that lead to the peaceful refuge.

She knew Kirigi was out, having been called for by his father. She knew none of the others were residing with Kirigi at the moment. She knew the servants had all retired to their quarters for the day, seeking sleep while they could get it.

Quietly, silently, she had walked through the vast gardens, every so often reaching out as if to touch, but she never let her fingertips get that close. The cold stone beneath her feet did not spread her disease into the ground the plants were rooted in, and she did not make a sound while she glided through the small jungle Kirigi had allowed his gardens to become.

It had been silent all around, life surrounding her, almost suffocating her. How ironic that life caused her to feel closed in, trapped, overwhelmed.

The only reason Typhoid Mary had sensed Tattoo's approach had been because of her advanced senses through her training. She had not been able to spot him though, but she sensed him. She knew his breathing pattern well, the sound of his soft footfalls.

Both kept silent, Tattoo not alerting Typhoid of his whereabouts, Typhoid not calling out for him to give her a hint. It had not been entirely clear exactly who was chasing who, but it had ended up with Typhoid's barely clothed should being grabbed from behind, the grip firm, strong, but brief and careful not to grip too tightly.

Typhoid turned and took in Tattoo's form, her eyes starting at his own bare feet, up his clothed legs, over his exposed skin and body art that gave him the only name she knew to call him, eyeing his neck and jaw and mouth and all of his face and tied up - though still wild - hair before meeting his gaze.

His pale, blue eyes were cold as ice, piercing her large, black pair, and they flickered with several emotions Typhoid could not name even if she had been given time to see each one for a few seconds, then grew cold once more.

"I know I'd find you here," he stated softly, his voice calm and just as cold as his gaze. He was only three feet away from her, but he took a step towards her, shortening the distance to two feet. "You always did love the gardens."

Unsure of why Tattoo was there and why she felt on edge around him, Typhoid eyed him warily. She sensed something, something off, wrong. She was used to Tattoo's coldness, his icy demeanor. She knew it well, knew to expect it.

It was his means of keeping his gaze off her, his fingers off her, his mouth off her, his body off her.

Yet tonight it seemed different, as if it was hiding something much more than desire and a longing that could never be fulfilled.

"I had nothing else to do," Typhoid replied, keeping her voice soft, her eyes still watching him with guarded curiosity. "I did not know you were coming," she added, a little too much emotion evident in her voice.

Tattoo closed the distance between them so quickly she wondered if he had somehow developed Kirigi's power. He stared down at her and the coldness in his eyes did not melt or fade away, but it grew intense and cruel as winter in the Artic. "I did not want you to know," he whispered, his voice so cold it burned her almost, and she shivered involuntarily.

"What has happened to you?" she asked, more curious than anything else. She reacted towards him with interest for the moment. She secretly loved Tattoo because he was a mixture of things that stirred desire and want from not only the woman she had become, but the girl she had once been. But this Tattoo, this cold, cruel being who was beautiful and deadly as the animals etched into his skin, he awakened lust only from the woman she was now, and part of her missed the old Tattoo.

But a larger part of her did not.

He did not look at her like Kirigi now did, with disgust and dominance. He looked at her as though she did matter as more than a toy to be tinkered and played with. He looked at her as though he wanted to claim her and would actually dare to do so. He looked at her with his icy stare that promised pain and death and cold kisses, but no disgust or revulsion, no contempt or disinterest.

Typhoid closed her eyes halfway, inhaling deeply, breathing in his scent, feeling his presence. She felt no body heat, which struck her as odd, until she let her mind reach out. Her eyes snapped open as she stared up at him, gaze demanding he explain the change in his presence.

Abruptly she was pulled to him, pressing tight against his body. Panic flooded her as she felt his skin, even as an instinctive, pleasured moan escaped her throat. The sound was low and almost a purr, exposing her initial reaction for the pleasure it was. She shuddered as his cold hands gripped her bare arms, feeling a cold mouth pressing against hers.

He showed no sign of being affected by her disease, instead pressing her tighter to him, his arms wrapping around her so he held her in a tight, demanding embrace. His teeth and tongue forced her lips apart, all of him as cold as she stare, and she felt something sharp nip at her bottom lip. She felt fangs.

At first she tried to resist, still certain her disease would soon start killing him. She was also curious, concerned, about the sharp nip, the lack of heat, the demanding, careless nature in Tattoo.

But his grip was powerful, strong, and as she tried to break free of it, it tightened almost painfully, refusing to let her pull away, and he kissed her deep. His tongue invaded her mouth, tasting all he could. His hands slid up her back until they reached the top of her head, quickly and almost roughly pulling all of her hair down.

Typhoid let out a soft whimper, pleasure and pain mixing so delightfully it made her tremble in his arms. As she started to realize Tattoo was somehow now immune to her disease, her hands slid up between their bodies, long fingernails lightly scraping at the skin of his torso and chest.

Tattoo abruptly broke the kiss, pushing her away slightly, leaving her even colder than he had felt. His eyes were still pale and icy, but she saw the desire and lust she dreamt of receiving from him in those eyes. His pale lips slightly parted, his pale skin almost flushed, she could see this time she had the effect on him she had always wanted.

"Don't stop," Typhoid whispered, her voice already husky and lustful. She felt as thought was about to die, everything was overloaded, overwhelmed. She hadn't had that much contact since she was a little girl being held in her mother's arms. The feeling was near orgasmic, and she craved more, so much more.

"I'll never get my fill of you," he whispered back, his voice a warning despite the desire that laced it. His eyes were almost white and blinding to her, the look in them cold even though it made her feel hot and uncomfortable in her clothes.

Leaning back into him, free of the normal worry for his health, Typhoid gave him a sleepy smile. "I'll never get my fill of you," she replied before lightly brushing her lips against his. She felt them open as if to speak, but the deep, languid kiss she gave him silenced those words.

"Details and explanations can come later," she told him firmly. Her tone quickly became pleading though as she spoke again. "I don't care if you kill me, just don't let me die right here. Please, just give me this before I die," she begged softly, kissing him once more, soft, sweet.

Abruptly, she was on her back and he was on top of her, kissing her fiercely. His hands gripped her enough to bruise, to mark her, to leave his mark on her and brand her as his, and his teeth nipped before his tongue licked and soothed the tender flesh. His throat vibrated with delighted purrs and groans, his actions rough and delicious.

Typhoid Mary swore she died then and there and went straight to the most exquisite place in existence, too sinful to be Heaven, too blissful to be Hell.

"Give him up," she heard Tattoo whispered, his soft voice husky and breathless, but his mouth never left hers. "Give him up if you want to die."

She knew what he meant. She knew what he wanted. She knew that something she had never been able to do before would have to be done now, or she was fall from her perfect place into Hell. She would have to abandon the one who had taken her in and had taught her to use her gift, her curse. She would have to leave the one who had trained her and twisted her and could no longer look at her the way she had once wanted him to.

She severed all her ties to Kirigi without a second thought.

Tattoo knew instantly when she was his, thoroughly, completely. All his, only his. No longer a slave to two masters, one because of dependency, one because of honest desire, she was his.

His hands made quick work of her clothing, so quick she didn't know precisely when she was fully undressed and exposed to his eyes. But his eyes didn't bother to drink her in yet, his mouth was just now trailing from hers to her throat.

Feeling his bare skin brush against hers, Typhoid was unable to hold back a loud gasp, her eyes widening before fluttering closed as she felt jolts of pleasure course through her. What would have been simple, tiny tremors to anyone else were powerful, drawn out trembles to her.

Her new master sensed this and laid most of his weight on top of her. His chest and torso pressing against his, Typhoid moaned long and low, wrapping her arms tight around him. He growled against his throat and nipped, sharp canines almost drawing blood and earning a whimper from her. His tongue quickly darted out to soothingly caress the reddened skin.

Typhoid writhed beneath him, her legs rubbing against the back of his covered thighs before wrapping around his waist, brushing against the bare skin of his sides. She was dying, drowning, suffocating. She didn't think she could be pushed closer to the brink if his face, fingers, or length was busy between her legs, but she ached to find out.

Soft, tiny whimpers and moans escaped her, and she was often rewarded with growls and groans in return. It seemed his simple teasing would never end, that he would forever busy himself with parts of her that were often exposed, to parts of her that were not even the most sensitive areas.

It was making her desperate. It was making her confused.

Should it end? Should it never stop? Did she want him to hurry up and finish, or did she want him to draw it out even longer?

In the end, Tattoo made the decision for her, abruptly traveling from her throat to her breasts, his lips light as a feather as they placed kisses all over her chest before his tongue darted out near one nipple, causing her to nearly cry out. Soon he was at the other, repeating the motions, causing her to gasp and arch her back.

She could feel him smile against her skin. Feel the predatory stare in his eyes, the possessive demeanor in his touch. She knew he was enjoying claiming her, marking her, taking her as his and his alone.

But the ache between her legs was killing her, and she could not help but finally beg.

"Please. Please, Tattoo, before I die," she pleaded, whimpering, begging, her hands clutching him as tight as she could, fingernails digging into his skin, almost drawing blood. She wanted him, needed him, and she was certain she would die when she had him finally.

Tattoo rose up from her, hovering above her almost menacingly. His eyes were cold yet lustful, his body shaking slightly as he panted. He was still so cold, but she knew that his limbs ached as badly as she did. It was in his eyes. It was the reason he went from menacing to merciful after several, silent moments. He did not even nod as he removed her hands from him and lead them to his pants.

Typhoid Mary got the message. She was to remove the last article of clothing. She could live with that.

Eagerly complying, Typhoid made quick work of the pants, and with her new master's help, soon he was as bare and exposed as she was, but she did not waste time to drink in the sight of him. She pulled him down onto her, kissing him fiercely, nearly yelping when he returned the kiss with almost savage intensity, his hands running over her body, claiming her, clawing her, marking her.

When exactly did his arousal move from her being pressed against her stomach to inside her moist heat, Typhoid couldn't be certain. But she knew when he entered her, knew when he broke through a barrier she had been positive would never be touched, knew when he was moving inside of her, knew when she felt such intense pain, knew when it became more pleasure but still as intense.

How long it lasted neither of them could tell. It seemed like an endless moment of grunts and moans and whimpers and groans, of flesh slapping against flesh, of gasps, pants, yelps, growls, hands clawing, teeth nipping, arms tightening, skin rubbing. It seemed as though the pleasure would never reach its peak, that even when Typhoid thought she would die if it became even more exquisite, it kept growing more intense, more overwhelming, more perfect.

And then it was over. Everything exploded, bodies strung like bows, tense and tight, suddenly were shaking with violent force, a scream forcing its way out of Typhoid even as she heard Tattoo roar like the tiger on his back. It was maddening, to was too much. It killed her, she knew, and she wondered if it killed him too.

The high did not end for quite some time. They both laid on the ground in the gardens, surrounding by greenery, their bodies a tangled heap, sex a heavy scent lingering in the air. The soft sound of their panting was the only thing Typhoid could here as she quivered next to Tattoo, feeling him slowly stop trembling. It was over, and she was dead.

She idly wondered if Kirigi would miss her.

One of Tattoo's hands moved up, gently caressing her slender neck. She shivered, her head falling to the side, giving him more access, which he instantly took advantage of, his slender fingers stroking over her still racing pulse. Her eyes met his for a moment, soft, longing, and then she closed them, knowing he would get the message, just as she had earlier.

He moved languidly, yet his actions were somehow swift. Soon his canines were pressed against the skin above her jugular, pressing into her ever so slightly. Their presence caused her to tremble, cling to Tattoo for dear life, for a soft prayer of thanks to be whispered from her lips.

The fangs lengthened, and then sank in, drinking as Typhoid Mary moaned.

She wouldn't miss Kirigi.


End file.
